


Under the light of the moon

by TheWhitesOfYourEyes



Category: Fire Emblem Series, Fire Emblem: Kakusei | Fire Emblem: Awakening
Genre: Dancing, Gen, Mother-Son Relationship, War
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-04
Updated: 2019-03-04
Packaged: 2019-11-08 10:12:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,878
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17979377
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheWhitesOfYourEyes/pseuds/TheWhitesOfYourEyes
Summary: In the dead of night, Inigo watches his mother dance.





	Under the light of the moon

                 The camp is deserted at this time of night. Inigo’s gentle footfalls are heard by no one as he sneaks from his tent. He keeps his eyes sharp, evermore, though he knows not for who he watches. There has always been an air of desperation around the adults; the way they talk, the way they walk, their muscles clenched tight in preparation, hands itching inches above their swords, their conversations flowing into something resembling silence when they see the second royal heir approach. It used to infuriate him, when he was smaller, how they’d always force themselves to be quiet when he’d find himself within earshot. Nowadays, at age ten, he understands the complexities of war, of the situation they, him and his people, find themselves in. He does not envy the burdens under which his father is placed. He envies Lucina even less.

            He knows no one watches as he slips into the sparse brush masquerading as forest near their camp. Everyone is so tired. Sans the guards, who are easy to sneak past when you know their schedule as well as he does, the adults sleep. His father might still be awake, pouring over maps and battle plans and strategies and missives and notes, but he might have fallen asleep over top of them all. Inigo’s seen it happen more than once. He’s gently shaken his father awake, guided him to his bed, kissed the top of his head as he fell back into blissful unconsciousness many times before. Tonight, he doesn’t particularly care what his father has been up to. He has other goals in mind.

            He dances barefoot through the forest. The leaves and brambles scratch his feet, but he does this often, his feet so used to this kind of treatment that the pain barely registers. He thinks of long pink hair flowing in the wind, of a young girl with a sword grip made of iron, of tired eyes and a forced smile. His family; they guide him, they provide him. He loves them so much his feet feel nothing and his heart aches.

            There she is. In a clearing in the forest, as he’s seen her so many times before. She is so shy, his mother, Olivia. He wishes she weren’t. Often he thinks she is the most beautiful woman in the world. The way she moves, her hands, her legs, her hips, her abdomen, her spine stretching and flexing when she writhes in the grip of songs and music only she can hear, he envies it. His hands move on their own volition as hers do, he unconsciously follow her dance, his hips and legs quaking, an earthquake, a tornado. He is a shadow of his mother, he follows her moves, he knows her music, the songs she sings, the words she whispers with her body. His feet feel nothing on the forest floor. His heart sings.

            He is suddenly not alone. He stops his dancing, his movement, his connection, as he feels blue eyes watching him from very, very close by. He stumbles, catches himself on a spindly tree, catches his breath in turn.

            “What are you doing here,” he whispers, making sure his voice is quiet, “Lucina.”

            His sister quirks an eyebrow. “I followed you,” she says simply, “following mom. You’re not very good at covering your tracks.”

            “You should be asleep,” he says, knows the hypocrisy he spits as it leaves his lips.

            “So should you,” Lucina counters, predictable, expected, true. He slouches against the tree. It’s a sapling; it has a long way to go before it towers above them. This whole forest had been ravaged by wars before they were born. He wonders if the new trees will survive the upcoming ones.

            “I wanted to watch mom dance,” he says, honest, knows the conversation will go nowhere, loop around, end in them bickering. He is tired, now that he thinks about it. He wonders when he last had a good night’s sleep.

            Lucina says nothing to this. She turns her gaze towards the clearing they hide beside, to their mother moving with the wind, with the stars, with the moon. She is beautiful, and Inigo wishes, for a moment, that he’d inherited her luscious pink hair. He’s only recently started looking at women as more than friends, more than play mates, but he thinks they’d appreciate a mane of ever so light red. He thinks he’d be very handsome in pink. He wonders, if he had children one day, what colour their hair would be.

            “She _is_ beautiful,” Lucina admits as their mother goes to the ground, her hands on her chest, her head in the dirt, her hips gyrating. Inigo doesn’t know what it’s called, this move, but he knows he’s seen it before, watched it on the battlefield from afar, seen comrades stare in awe, their eyes filled with new inspiration, their swords and lances and axes and tomes screaming for blood.

            “I want to dance like her,” Inigo says, moving away from the young tree he’s leaned against. “One day. I’ll learn how, and I’ll be as inspiring as her, and I’ll be able to help people and love people and save the world.”

            “That’s a good dream,” Lucina acknowledges, “but a dream nonetheless. Be realistic, please, brother. Saving the world requires more than dancing. It needs swords, people, money, loyalty.”

            “And I’ll acquire them all,” Inigo says without a thought, “without shedding a drop of blood.” He moves his feet through the dirt, through the leaves, now, his thoughts to the future, his hands to the stars. “I’ll dance and people will pick up their swords, leave their fields, bask in the glow of my feelings and my arms outstretched will rend our enemies asunder.” He is dancing again, now, thoughtlessly, letting his words drift into the sky and into the trees. Lucina was always so much like their father. She never _got_ the feeling of dancing, the feeling of letting your thoughts flow through your body, into your hands, feet, blood, bones. Lucina knows how to hold a sword. Father knows how to hold a sword. They know how to kill. Mother knew how to inspire.

            He catches Lucina’s gaze. She is not looking at him. He stops his movements suddenly, aware he has lost his audience, and he follows her eyes. They are, of course, focused on mother.

            She’s stopped dancing. She’s seen them, heard them, though they’ve been cautious. She knows her children well. She is, after all, their mother. Inigo lets his arms fall down to his side. Lucina glances back to him, quirks an eyebrow. Mother will be harsh. She doesn’t want them losing sleep. She’ll shepherd them back to bed, maybe give them a kiss goodnight, if she’s feeling generous, ignore Inigo as he pleads for her to please, please get some rest as well, she’s been working so hard. She’ll smile sadly, tell them she loves them, then go back into the woods to practice under the moonlight. He knows this, and this he dreads. Knowing how hard she pushes herself hurts him, deep in his gut. He wishes he could lift her burden, the burden of knowledge, of adulthood, of strain and exhaustion.

            She smiles at them. She knows they are there, despite the brush. She is blushing, ever so slightly, but they are her children, and she is not embarrassed they see her dance. She is vulnerable like this, exposed, her skin and bones and dust laid bare against the straining light of the half moon, clouds occasionally shrouding the light, leaves dappled across the new forest floor. But so are they.

            “Come on out,” she says, a hint of laughter in her voice,” you two.”

            They are both still for a moment, before Lucina, reluctantly, takes a step forward, then another, out of the brush. Her head is low, her gaze to the ground. Inigo follows after a moment. Blush runs red down his face, onto his neck. He’d been hoping that, tonight, he wouldn’t be caught. He likes to think he’s been getting better at sneaking around recently. Maybe, if dancing didn’t work out, he could be a spy.

            Olivia crouches down into the dirt as her children near. “You don’t have to hide in the trees when you watch me dance.”

            Inigo is surprised by her words. Lucina is too, apparently, if her stiffening shoulders and creased eyebrows are anything to go by. She’s usually so stern that they get to sleep, that they keep their health, their royal virtue, anything to keep them strong. Tonight there is something different in her gaze.

            “I…” He begins, but she shushes him, a finger to his lips. She is smiling wide.

            “It means a lot to me,” she admits, “that you’d want to come out and watch me.”

            “We didn’t mean to pry,” Lucina says, scrunching dirt and branches beneath her foot.

            “It’s not prying,” Olivia says, “It’s curiosity. And I don’t mind. You’re my children. I love you more than anything in this world.” She let out a little laugh, hidden beneath her hand, suddenly sounding shy. “If anyone were to watch me practice, I’d rather it be you.”

            “Or father,” Inigo adds, quietly, just to see her reaction. Now she blushes red.

            “Or your father,” she repeats, a smile on her face. Inigo sees Lucina grin, a little bit, from the corner of his eyes. He grins wider, just to one up her. Sometimes he is petty, but what little brother isn’t? He takes pride in the genuine smile on his mother’s face as she sees looks at her children.

            “I was wondering,” Inigo starts, fiddling with his hands, “if you could teach us a few moves.” Lucina looks at him, slightly mortified, as the word ‘us’, but Inigo knows that she’s been thinking the same thing he has. She is just as enamoured with their mother’s rhythmic movement as he is, even if she is hast to admit it.  

            Olivia looks thoughtful for a moment. Then, “Of course. I’m not the greatest teacher, though. I don’t know how to explain a lot of the things I do.” She stands up tall, bites her lip. “A lot of it just comes natural.”

            “I know exactly what you mean!” Inigo exclaims, jumping excitedly in place. “When your body just moves on its own, letting the rhythm take hold… I know it well!”

            Olivia looks like she might burst at the seams. “The rhythm of dance,” she says, holding her arms up high, “We can feel it in our blood.” Inigo watches as she takes a step, then another.  “Watch me, children, and feel the songs I sing.”

            Inigo holds his hands up high, a mirror reflection of his mother. Lucina holds still for a moment, her hands clutched tight to her side, Falchion dangling from her hip, before she, too, lifts her arms, reaching towards the sky.

            They dance with their mother until the morn. The stars twinkle. The moon, half full, bares down upon them.

                                                            ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

            Olivia doesn’t return from the battlefield the next day. Their father presents to them a piece of pink cloth. There are tears in his eyes. Inigo doesn’t dance again for a very long time.

**Author's Note:**

> I've always thought that Olivia and Chrom was an interesting pairing.  
>  follow my tumblr tastyalientoes.tumblr.com


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